


Trauma

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fever, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, M/M, Medical Trauma, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8143163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: Trau-ma: noun; a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Keep an eye on the tags, there will be more added.
> 
> This is for gloriouscumberbatch/sugarnutbenny on tumblr, for a gift exchange last winter - I am so sorry this is so late. I hope you like this angst-filled fic!

CHAPTER 1

 

As per usual, John ran after Sherlock. He heard the shot first, and then he flinched. He saw Sherlock in front of him come to halt and spun around—and, thinking Sherlock had been shot, he immediately blamed himself for not being quick enough. But as his left shoulder jerked backwards from the force, and he was overcome by radiating pain as his brain processed the current hole in his body, John thought, _better me than him, right?_

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

The first time John was shot, the bullet had entered his back and exited out the front of his left shoulder. He had heard his fellow soldiers calling out to him, shouting orders to each other, and screaming out in their own pain.

As he had been dragged away, John stared up at the bright sun, the pain too much to fathom in words, so all he did was scream. His awareness had started to fade from that point, and he only remembered glimpses of his fellow army doctors, and of James looking down at him as he was airlifted to the closest hospital base.

“Hang on, Watson,” James had told him firmly. The man’s blond features had been surrounded by a golden halo from the desert sun, mesmerizing John for a few glorious seconds without any pain.

But it only got worse. John had been overcome by infection, heat exhaustion, and fever for several days, his temperature spiking twice and having to have his body cooled down with a sponge, and then again in a lukewarm bath that sent him cursing anyone who had been touching him. But John barely remembered that. He did remember however, being alone after that, being discharged from the army, and then returning to London, lonelier and in pain than ever before.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Now, John collapsed to the ground, and for a few seconds, he saw the Afghanistan sun above him again—like before. He could hear shouting, both familiar and entirely new. He caught the sound of his voice, but it was incredibly distant that he wasn’t sure where it came from. The pain in his shoulder increased by the second, blurring his vision with the threat of unconsciousness, and with unshed tears of the overwhelming want to succumb to it right there and then.

John cried out, finally hearing his own voice coming from his throat, reassuring him that he was in fact, still alive. The night sky glistened above him in between rooftops, and Sherlock was looking down on him.

John cried out again. His eyes fluttered as his body painfully trembled. Warm blood drenched his clothes and his surroundings swirled above him. Memories flashed in front of him again, and he caught some words—repeated syllables from James and Sherlock, demands directed at John he wasn’t sure he could fulfill.

“Stay awake! Keep your eyes open—Watson! —”

“—Oh, my dear, John—!”

Sherlock’s shaky voice trailed off. John furrowed his eyebrows, both in panic and confusion. Sherlock’s voice wasn’t supposed to sound it like that. It wasn’t right…

John’s vision blackened all too quickly, and he passed out with Sherlock’s shouts echoing with James’s.

He slowly awoke to the smell of sanitation, the blinding fluorescent lights, and the monotonous beeping of his heartbeat; he knew immediately where he was. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he noticed Sherlock was anxiously tapping the bed railing beside him. John blinked a few times and focused on him, but being more aware seemed to increase the pain in his left shoulder—no, his entire left side, —and it only worsened as he fully woke up, causing a hoarse groan escape his dry throat.

Sherlock’s tapping ceased completely and he moved closer. John squeezed his eyes shut, overcome by intolerant pain.

“John?”

Sherlock rested his hand over John’s right hand. John weakly turned his palm up and allowed Sherlock to hold it. He couldn’t quite flex his arm or even his fist, but the feel of Sherlock presence seemed to lessen the pain a bit. He fell back asleep before he could fully comprehend everything.

A couple of days passed before John was nearly fully conscious, and able enough to open his eyes without flinching. His skin felt dry and unwashed; his face was unshaved and quite despicable if he were honest to himself. He was cold yet knew he’d get overheated easily, so he remained shirtless with the blanket just up to his waist. The thick bandage over his left shoulder wrapped around his chest diagonally; it went under his right arm and around his back. His left arm was in a sling held stable against his chest and lifted slightly by a pillow. The sling itched around his neck, making matters irritatingly worse.

Sherlock was beside him like he had been the past few days. He did most of the talking, and didn’t seem to mind. John certainly didn’t. He didn’t have much to say himself.

As Sherlock went on about…something, bees perhaps, the pain in John’s shoulder sharpened. Jon automatically reached for the morphine drip for more, when gentle hands cupped his own and withdrew it from the control.

“It makes you queasy,” Sherlock said gently.

John closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his jaw. “I don’t need a reminder,” he said in a low, scratchy voice. He removed his hand from Sherlock and took the controller back. Sherlock didn’t protest. John looked up for a second, catching a glimpse of pity on Sherlock’s face. He quickly looked away, and then slowly began to relax as the morphine numbed the pain.

John wasn’t sure how much time passed; he jolted awake once again in pain. The room spun and he felt unease. His blurred vision worsened as he tried to focus. Sherlock moved closer to him, his brows furrowed with worry. Sherlock seemed to know what was going to happen before John did, and placed a small, empty bucket in John’s lap just as he arched forward and vomited. John cried out as the pain flared through his injured shoulder. He scrunched his eyes tightly closed as he leaned back against the pillow. Sherlock wiped his face with a cloth, and then not very subtly moved the morphine control out of John’s reach.

John was too overcome with pain that he fell back asleep before he could protest.

That night, John suffered a restless sleep. He could barely move with how his arm was placed over the pillow, and with the sling around his neck, he couldn’t get comfortable. Unable to go back to sleep, John reached for the morphine control, only to realize he couldn’t reach it. John clenched his right fist tightly in the bed sheets and he whimpered as the pain trembled down his body.

Sherlock appeared by his side and wiped John’s forehead with a damp cloth.

“You can’t get anymore till tomorrow afternoon,” he said quietly. John hated his tone of voice. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be this coddling, worried man staying up by John’s bedside.

John let out a choked sigh and looked up at Sherlock, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“Please…” John rasped. He sighed shakily and sighed a plea again, but Sherlock only shook his head with a somber look.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock’s voice shook, but he didn’t move away.

John scoffed weakly and turned his head away. His body continued to tremble and his skin was itchy with sweat against the cheap, polyester sheets. He fell back asleep, grateful for the oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's reading this! It means a lot, and here's chapter 2, surprisingly the very next day! :)

**CHAPTER 2**

John screamed himself awake and nearly sat up completely, but his movements were cut short by searing pain. John cried out again and whimpered. He inhaled sharply, trying to catch his breath as he lowered himself back against the pillow. His hospital room was completely dark except for a sliver of light coming from the bottom of the door. John flickered his eyes to Sherlock, who was looking at him. Silently, Sherlock stood up and sat in the chair closer to John’s bed.

“It was just a dream,” he murmured.

“I know that,” John snapped hoarsely. He weakly glared at Sherlock and then lowered his gaze. He looked at his injured arm and forced it to move. His hand shifted slightly, but that was it. John’s cheeks burned and he turned his face away from Sherlock, urging his thoughts to cease completely so he could rest. He remained awake for the rest of the night, until dawn approached and Sherlock opened up the blinds.

Quietly, John spoke. “Get me out of here, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock’s body tensed by the window, and he didn’t answer.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Sherlock was used to these moments by now. During the past three days, John had only been conscious for a couple of hours at a time, and every time there would be a moment of possible catatonia. John would fall silent, stare at his injured arm, and remain that way for several hours. He wouldn’t pretend he was ok; he hadn’t even demanded to be discharged since that one time this morning. He didn’t bring it up again. He was just quiet.

Sherlock shuddered anxiously. When John had been brought in from the ambulance, he was anything but quiet. Sherlock _almost_ preferred that—John had been crying out to fellow soldiers, clearly hallucinating the first time he had been shot. He had called out for James Sholto, had cried in pain when the paramedics and nurses lifted him from the gurney onto the hospital bed, which then he cried out to Sherlock. Sherlock would never forget the amount of pain John’s eyes glistened with—that, he did not prefer.

John had tried to escape the doctors as he continued hallucinating. But he couldn’t fight them off, let alone even shift his left arm. Sherlock cringed at the memory. At least then, he knew John was in pain, albeit he couldn’t do much. But now John was quiet, so Sherlock didn’t know exactly what was going on in his head. John was constantly tense—constantly under the appearance of being in pain; Sherlock didn’t know how much and what he could do to comfort him. John didn’t respond to his asks and even gave up trying to get the morphine control from Sherlock. It was only at night that he knew, but it was just as unbearable to hear John whimper and cry out in his sleep than to hear nothing at all.

A whimper jolted Sherlock from his thoughts. He walked up the side of the bed and looked down onto John, whose eyes were parted slightly and his face was sweaty. Sherlock reached for a cloth from the table, dampened it with the lukewarm water from the bowl, and then gently wiped John’s face, smoothing over the creases and wrinkles.

John blinked his eyes opened and he glanced up at Sherlock. He cleared his throat hoarsely, but only managed to let out a pained sigh. Minutely, John slowly arched his back and his eyes fluttered closed. Sherlock straightened up just as John’s whole body tensed and he quickly started to jerk forward, seizing. The vitals on the machine beeped alarmingly, and two nurses rushed into the room.

Sherlock was overcome by the frenzy; he stepped back without a word. He could only watch in horror as the seizure continued for several more seconds before John finally calmed down, unconscious but breathing nonetheless.

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder push him down, and he weakly did. His body trembled and he inhaled sharply. The room spun around him and he slowly fell back against the chair, succumbing to unconsciousness as well.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

John thrashed in the bed, suddenly aware of someone’s hand touching his forehead. He squirmed weakly underneath their touch and tried to move away, but the hand wouldn’t leave, and then person— _oh, Sherlock?_ —began talking incoherently nearby. It was oddly comforting, and as John strained to hear it, he was overcome once again with exhaustion.

The talking slowly became a mere humming, and then it was a distant whistling for second before erupting into an explosion in the desert sand. John tossed and turned, urging the memory to go way, but his mind wouldn’t permit his orders. James was behind him, telling him something, but John couldn’t hear it. James was getting farther away, and as John tried to follow him, pain trembled through his body, paralyzing him in place. His vision blurred; he was sweating and he shivered despite feeling the Afghan sunshine upon his shaking body.

He vaguely heard voices off in the distance, but he could only see sand and sunlight. The sky above him was so blue; he momentarily felt a wave of relief. But then the pain worsened and John squeezed his eyes closed as he cried out. He tried to curl in on himself, but he couldn’t seem to move. It was as if someone was holding him down.

John opened his eyes against the blinding light and Sherlock’s face appeared close to his. He caught glimpses of his hospital room, but everything was so bright and harsh, he closed his eyes and whimpered. He suddenly felt cool water envelope him from all sides; it hurt yet at the same time, was refreshing and soft. He trembled and moaned, but didn’t fight back. He opened his eyes once more to see Sherlock above him as his surroundings sharpened into the hospital bathroom. Slowly, John blinked, and then passed out completely.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Sherlock paced around John’s bed for the rest of the night. John’s fever had spiked dangerously high, throwing John off into hallucinations and delusions. It was nightmarish to watch John suffer and not be able to put an end to it. It was driving Sherlock mad, urging him for a cigarette or something stronger—

John shifted roughly on the bed behind him. Sherlock hovered over him and pressed the back of his hand to John’s forehead.

“He’s burning up,” he said to the nurse who just walked in.

“We’ll keep an eye on it,” she said. “That’s all we can do, before we know what kind of infection he’s dealing with. We’ve given him some medication to keep the seizures at bay for now. I’m afraid that’s all we can do,” she repeated. The nurse finished her routine checkup, and then left with a reassuring smile.

Suddenly, John gasped and his eyes widened, unfocused and bleary with tears and fluid. He glanced at Sherlock, but didn’t quite focus on his face, as if he didn’t recognize his presence.

“James? He all right?” John slurred.

Sherlock cringed slightly. “John,” he started slowly. “You have a fever. You’re in the hospital.”

“I need to see him—see James, he-he,” John choked and gagged; he coughed up a little bit of vomit, but he didn’t seem to care, or even notice that it had dribbled down his chin. Sherlock wiped it away with a cloth. John grimaced as he tried to sit up; he was too weak he couldn’t even lift his head from the slanted angle of the bed. Sherlock didn’t even have to hold him down. John slouched against the pillow and flickered his eyes around the room frantically.

“James!” John called out. His voice cracked, and he was out of breath already. John’s chest heaved as he struggled to take deep breaths. Sherlock fixed the thin oxygen tube under John’s nose and proceeded to wipe away the sweat. John flinched and turned his head away.

A shudder ran through his body; John moaned and his eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds before he reopened them slightly. His eyes sharpened for a moment, focusing on the floor.

“…Hurts…” he murmured hoarsely. Sherlock bit his lip.

“I know,” Sherlock replied helplessly. “You can’t have anymore morphine just yet.”

Sherlock reached for a damp cloth and reapplied it to John’s forehead.

_He needs to be at home…that’s what he wants, right?_

Sherlock shook himself from thinking and focused on John. He decided to figure it out once John was more aware. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, but sit by him and comfort him; he had never felt this useless before in his life.

*            *            *

Fortunately, John’s fever broke the next morning. He was exhausted after the ordeal, but was now slowly waking up, free of the confusion and fever. He opened his eyes and winced from the bright lights. There was a rustle of movement beside him, and he opened his eyes again to see Sherlock.

“John?”

John parted his mouth and let out a sigh. Everything hurt, especially his chest and shoulder. His throat was dry and he coughed as he tried to speak. He glanced around Sherlock, noticing he was still in the hospital. He swallowed dryly; Sherlock placed a cup by his mouth with a straw, and he gratefully took a sip. It helped a little.

“Leave…” John started. Sherlock’s face dropped. John slowly processed what he said, and he bit his lip and shook his head once.

“I need to…” he whispered. “Go. Home.”

Sherlock relaxed beside him. “You’re being treated for an infection. You have to stay for at least another week—.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock…get me out of here. I can heal at home.” John inhaled slowly, and then exhaled. “I’ll sign anything…just…please—.”

Sherlock tensed beside him. “You’re not well, John. Just wait a few more days, at least.”

John scoffed weakly and turned his head away from Sherlock. He glanced at the door, when a nurse walked in.

“Good morning, Mr. Watson—.”

“Doctor,” John rasped. The nurse smiled apologetically.

“Doctor. How are we feeling?”

“Good,” John lied. “I want to leave.” He cleared his throat and caught her gaze. “Please. I’ll sign anything.”

The nurse’s face remained neutral. “It would be against your doctor’s orders, so you would have to sign that you’re leaving against medical advice—.”

“I know.” John pushed himself up in the bed and settled higher against the pillow. The room spun around him, but he was determined, and after a few seconds, his vision sharpened. The nurse nodded once and then left.

“John, I don’t think—,” Sherlock started.

“I don’t care what you think!” John snapped hoarsely. He didn’t look at Sherlock, but could practically hear him snap his jaw shut and tense in his chair. A moment later, John glanced at him and then looked away. Sherlock was looking at the door, his face completely neutral—nearly cold and indifferent. John’s throat tightened and he hunched slightly; his face burned a little with embarrassment, so he kept his head turned away from Sherlock as he waited for the discharge papers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments keep me sane as per usual :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably going to be 6-10 total chapters, short ones. I decided to add Chapter 3 now to keep you all on your toes :)
> 
> plus, this one is quite short ;)

**CHAPTER 3**

 

John was the first to exit the hospital, enter the cab, and leave the cab as they pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock followed him closely, wary that he might pass out at any moment. John was clearly in a lot of pain, now that the last dose of morphine from that morning had run its course.

John stood by the entrance, impatient to get inside out of the cold, late afternoon. His arm was still in a sling, and his shoulder was wrapped in a slightly thinner bandage. Sherlock unlocked the door, and let John head inside first. He walked up the steps carefully; he held onto the railing with a loose grip, although he paused for a millisecond every few steps to catch his breath. On the landing, he made a beeline to his chair and sat down with a short sigh.

“John—,” Sherlock started as he put their things away.

“I’ll take my coat off later,” John said with his eyes briefly closed. He curled his right fist over his kneecap, and his jaw clenched. His body was nearly trembling, and a slight layer of sweat was starting to glisten over his forehead, despite the flat being cooler than usual.

“Cold?” Sherlock asked as casually as he could.

John shook his head. “Not at all. Just want some tea, and I think I’ll rest a bit. I’m not really hungry.”

“You barely ate at the hospital.”

“Wasn’t hungry.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and prepared the tea. He handed the steaming cup to John. John shifted, attempting to raise his left arm, but he remembered the way it was restricted against his chest, and faltered. He raised his right arm quickly instead, the whole thing of habit being dismissed in a second. John kept his gaze lowered, and muttered his gratitude. His hand trembled slightly; he gripped the mug tightly and tried to get comfortable in his chair. Sherlock hovered around him, picking up random things around the flat, straightening up.

John went to bed early that evening, and with a silent look, refused any help in getting ready. He placed his bandaged shoulder over an extra pillow, and then placed another pillow just underneath his forearm, slanting his body. It wasn’t comfortable, but he tolerated it. Sherlock watched but didn’t do anything. His body was nearly trembling with concern, and all he wanted to do was cradle John and take away all his pain, but he knew the offer was the closest John would allow, so he remained quiet. The man he loved was stubborn after all.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

The next morning, Sherlock awoke from a restless doze and quickly dressed. The sun was just rising, and John was asleep in their bed, still in the same, restrained position. John’s brows were creased forward slightly, and his body was tense. He needed to take his medication soon, both for the pain and the infection to keep it at bay. Letting him out of the hospital was nearly against protocol; he should have stayed in the intensive care unit, but John was adamant.

Sherlock prepared the kettle for tea, and kept an ear out for John. He was just about to bring a cup to their bedroom when he heard stiff footsteps coming from the hallway. John made his way into the sitting room and sat slowly into his chair. His jaw was clenched and he was sweating; yet he managed to keep himself upright and his eyes wide open.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was almost normal, except entirely forced, Sherlock doubt John knew he was getting away with this façade; Sherlock played along anyway, for John’s benefit.

“Tea?” Sherlock handed him the cup; John took it carefully. His hand shook again. Sherlock eyed it but he didn’t say anything.

“Have you taken your medication?”

John nodded without looking up. It was as if he wasn’t even trying. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow; John glanced up and then sighed.

“I took the one for the infection. I can handle the pain.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, you were in the hospital for barely a week. You were nearly addicted to the morphine before I managed to ease you off of it—.”

“I’d have you know, Sherlock,” John interrupted in a clipped tone. “That I’ve done this before.” He raised his chin defiantly. Sherlock stiffened his expression and mirrored the tilt of the head.

“I know,” he replied. “You’re not alone though now.”

John’s mouth slackened and he nearly gapped. He closed his mouth into a slight frown and looked away.

“What’s the plan for today? Any cases to work on?”

Sherlock shrugged and headed to his violin. If John wanted to pretend everything was okay now, then he had no problem going along with him. It was going to be simple.

Or so he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for leaving comments so far :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there's any mistakes. But I hope you enjoy the angst :)
> 
> Thank you everyone who's left a comment! They mean so much to me! :)

**CHAPTER 4**

Sherlock knew he should have known better. At the hospital, John had suffered so much that Sherlock was at a lost. All he could manage to offer was comforting touches, reassurance that John was not alone. Now, sitting at the edge of his bed with his head bowed down in defeat, Sherlock berated at himself for being so careless, for thinking it was going to be different, now that they were home. It was all his fault…

 

_Twelve hours earlier…_

 

Sherlock played his violin for most of the morning, but he barely paid attention to what he was playing. It did seem to distract John from his pain, though. John sat still in his chair, occasionally flexing his right fist and closing his eyes as the pain radiated through his nerves.

Sherlock set aside the instrument and looked out the window.

“How’s the pain?” He glanced around and looked at John; John looked at his fist before meeting Sherlock’s gaze.

“Tolerable,” John replied shortly. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when he opened them it seemed it took a lot of effort to do so. “I think I’m going to—,”

“Lie down?”

“Take a walk,” John said instead. “Do you want to join me?” he asked.

Sherlock nearly gapped at him. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin up, trying to be clear in his opinion.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, John,” Sherlock said carefully. John’s lips twitched with a hint of a grin, but shook his head.

“It’s fine; it’ll help,” John explained.

“How?” Sherlock very nearly demanded. He clenched his jaw and tried to control himself; John could take care of himself, he told himself. He had done this before after all.

John stiffly stood up. He swayed very slightly, but regained his balance fully and began to walk towards the door.

“I can’t just be sitting around—” John started.

“The doctor said you had to rest—,”

“Yeah, and the doctor wanted me to stay in the hospital for at least another week. I’m feeling fine. I haven’t had a fever since the day before yesterday; it’s under control.”

Sherlock stiffened and glared at John. John flinched from the shifted expression, and then he hardened his expression, unyielding in his stance.

“You were shot on Sunday, through your left shoulder just below the original wound. Your ribs are extremely sore—very nearly breaking from the impact of the bullet. The infection occurred from whatever had entered your bloodstream, either from the bullet or the environment, and it caused you to have a seizure. Today is only Friday!” Sherlock exclaimed.

John shifted his balance. His expression faltered slightly; he narrowed his eyes as he looked at Sherlock, as if he was looking for something. But then he resigned, and started to head back to his chair.

“Fine,” John snapped quietly. “I’ll just sit then.” He didn’t look up at Sherlock. He reached for a book he had started a while ago, and began picking up where he had left off. Sherlock remained quiet and picked up his violin again. His movements were harsher and short, but it helped him let off some steam, and John didn’t complain.

By the evening, they had switched places. John was at the desk attempting to type with one hand, while Sherlock was in his own chair, stretching his feet out towards John’s armchair. John muttered under his breath and then sighed. Sherlock looked at him, like he had been all day. The man was right; he did seem fine.

But now there was a minute tremble going down his body, and the sweat over his forehead was back.

“You haven’t eaten much,” Sherlock stated.

“Not hungry,” John replied. “The medication doesn’t go well with an appetite.”

“Have some water at least.”

“Quit it, Sherlock,” John sighed. Sherlock sighed heavily.

A few minutes passed and then John closed the laptop shut and stood up. He swayed, caught himself on the chair, and then headed down the hallway. Sherlock watched him go, and then kept an ear out.

He could hear John undress and lie down in the bed with a contented sigh. Sherlock was relieved John was finally resting, however in a silent, stubborn way. Sherlock wanted John to be vocal about his pain; so then he could do whatever he could to help him. John’s current attitude left him not knowing, which meant Sherlock wouldn’t be as prepared as he should, for something such as—

A yell emerged from the bedroom, short and quickly cut off. Sherlock jumped out of his chair and barged into their bedroom without taking a breath or even calling out and asking what was wrong. What he could see was enough.

John was hunched over on the bed, the blanket bunched up at his waist over his legs. He was clutching his bandaged shoulder with his right hand, nearly clawing at it and trying to press against the wound. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was taking in short breaths through his nose.

“John—.”

John opened his eyes and coughed, clearing his throat. He was surprised of Sherlock’s presence.

“Just-just a sore nerve. I hadn’t moved it all day, it’s fine—,”

Sherlock reached forward and grazed his hand against John’s bare arm. John flinched away, but Sherlock felt enough.

“You’re warm—.”

“I am a little warm, yes,” John said. “That’s why I’m nearly stark naked in bed. Don’t get any ideas.” He offered a grin, but Sherlock didn’t fall for it.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Sherlock asked, his voice laced with concern.

John shook his head. “I’m fine—.”

“I’ll get you some pain killers so you can _actually_ rest,” Sherlock decided out loud. Before John could protest, he left the room, and shortly returned with the medication and a glass of water.

“Take,” he demanded lightly. John did so, and nodded once.

“I’m going to rest now,” he said, as if he was promising something. “I might be hungry later.”

“Mrs. Hudson prepared some soup; it’ll last a week at least.”

John nodded and then slowly lied back down. He kept the blanket at his waist and squirmed into the uncomfortable position against the pillows.

“Anything else, John?” Sherlock asked gently.

John shook his head, and remained quiet. Sherlock left the room, keeping the door ajar, and then headed to the kitchen.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

It was a couple of hours before midnight when a sound from their bedroom caught Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock entered the bedroom slowly, cautious of startling John. The room was pitch dark; as his eyes adjusted, Sherlock could just make out John’s silhouette lying on the bed. Sherlock stepped in closer.

The blanket was shoved aside; John laid on his right side, facing the door. The pillows he had been lying against were forgotten about. He was clutching at the sheets and his eyes were tightly closed. His mouth was parted and his breathing was ragged. Sherlock stepped in closer to the bed and knelt down. He ran his hand over John’s forehead, and then flinched from the warmth. He quickly left the room, and then returned with a damp cloth and started to gently pat John’s forehead.

John didn’t react to the cooler temperature. He was fast asleep, but trying to breath was straining his injuries, especially his ribs. Sherlock needed to move him, but was reluctant with causing him any more pain.

John squirmed slightly and moaned. His body trembled and his breathing quickened. Sherlock gently placed his hand over John’s hip and shook him, but he didn’t wake up.

“John?” Sherlock raised his voice. John whimpered and attempted to turn on his back. He winced in pain and gasped, but managed to lie on his back. He breathed heavily, and then instantly sat up with a shout.

_Oh—nightmare—of course!_

Sherlock fumed to himself for missing the obvious, and straightened up. He sat on the edge of the bed while John tried to steady his breathing. He clutched at his bandaged arm and clenched his fists. Sherlock reached forward and tried to pull John’s hand away; John didn’t seem to notice him yet, but let him take his hand. Sherlock massaged it gently, urging for the tension to cease.

“You need to take some medication, John. You have a fever—,”

“I—I did—I.”

“The doctor called just after you went to bed. The infection looks like the beginnings of sepsis. You need to go to the hospital—,” Sherlock explained, but John shook his head.

“N-no—,” he replied.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. He had thought this news would change John’s mind.

“It can escalate quickly, John—.”

John shook his head again and blinked heavily. “L-last time, I was septic. It nearly killed me. This time—it’s different. The bullet went straight through—I can make it with-without being in a hospital,” John said shakily. He was breathing heavy and starting to sweat. He raised a shaking hand and wiped his forehead.

“John—the infection can make the wound worse. You could require surgery again or—,”

“No!” John snapped. He flinched and clutched at his bandaged shoulder again, and let out a whimper. “No…” he muttered again. “I—I don’t want to—lose weeks again. Or months. I’ll be fine,” he insisted.

“John—”

“Please...can you just leave me alone?” John whispered.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “I—”

“Just go!” John snapped hoarsely. He trembled—Sherlock clenched his jaw. John looked horrid; his skin was pale and his eyes were unfocused. He was still sitting upright and clutching at his arm. Sherlock took a step forward.

John looked out the corner of his eye and then fidgeted away on the bed, scooting away from Sherlock. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and then slowly turned around. He decided to remain quiet, but kept the door ajar.

*            *            *

John lied down slowly as Sherlock left. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, but he felt too cold and tried to curl up in the sweaty sheets. His arm radiated in pain; he tossed onto his side only for the pain to flare up. Cursing, John sat up and attempted to rearrange the pillows in a more comfortable position. His vision blurred; he paused. Quickly, his mouth began to salivate and he scurried out of the twisted sheets and stormed through the bathroom door, hurling himself into the counter and retching into the sink.

Sherlock barged in a second later. John was shaking violently. He glanced at himself in the mirror and groaned. His cheeks were red; his hair was disheveled, and there was vomit still on his lips. He retched again, the bile burning his throat. His injured arm was straining against the sling, while the sling slipped up his chest and pressed his Adam's apple. John choked and coughed. Sherlock came up to his side and rubbed his back.

“Take some medication at least—”

John shook his head.

“But—”

“Get something else,” John rasped. “I'll just throw it up anyway. Injection would be better.”

“The hospital—”

“Dammit, no! Get it, I don't care how, just—,”

John was sick again, and coughed up whatever contents his stomach had left into the sink. He closed his eyes tightly and swayed.

“Morphine… please, Sherlock, get me some—,”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror.

“Absolutely not, John—!”

John peaked his eyes open. They were glazed over with unshed tears, and begging.

“P-please,” John whimpered up at him. He started to stand up, but swayed dangerously into Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock took him to bed and dressed him in fresh pajamas. John refused to put a shirt on, and instead pulled the sheet over his clad torso. He whimpered from the moment and looked at Sherlock.

“Sher—,”

“Don’t ask me again,” Sherlock replied firmly. “Please…”

John’s lip trembled, but he didn’t reply. He squirmed under the sheets and removed his gaze from Sherlock. Sherlock caressed his forehead, noting the slight warmth his skin still had, and then left, keeping the door ajar.

By midnight, Sherlock was finally starting to feel exhausted. He entered their room and started to lie down next to John, when he caught sight of his partner. John’s eyes were tightly closed, and sweat was dripping down his forehead. Sherlock stood up and hovered over him. He felt his forehead and flinched. The man was burning up.

John flinched from the movement and parted his eyes slightly. Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around John’s body.

“That’s it, John,” he said firmly as he pulled John into a sitting position. “You’re going to the hospital.”

John groaned in protest and tried to turn away. Sherlock pulled him up onto his feet and held him up for balance, and then he started to half drag, half carry John out their room and down the hallway. John clutched at Sherlock’s shirt for balance, but at the same time, he tried to get out of his grasp and back towards their bedroom.

“Sh’lock—lem’mego—,” John slurred.

“For me,” Sherlock said. “Please—,”

John whimpered and twisted out of Sherlock’s hold. He pushed Sherlock away, causing him to stumble and fall back onto his bum. Meanwhile, John swayed backwards and hit the wall on his right side, projecting him onto the floor, where he landed on his left shoulder.

There was a second of silence.

And then, John screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments keep me sane :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fanart is one of my favorites, and it inspired a scene in this chapter. You can look at it before or after, if you don't want to be spoiled or want to imagine it first.  
> http://watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com/post/145266825148/alessiapelonzi-grief-i-did-not-know-how-to
> 
> I hope there aren't many mistakes. Enjoy!

**CHAPTER 5**

 

Sherlock bolted upright and hurried to John. He hesitated in touching him, but knelt down on his knees and cautiously inched forward. John was crying now, almost wailing in pain.

“John?”

John didn’t show any sign that he heard him. His screaming became distorted; he was crying out, clutching his shoulder, and moaning as he writhed on the floor. He had gotten on his knees, but remained hunched forward. Sherlock slowly touched John’s back with his fingertips.

John didn’t flinch or respond to the touch. Sherlock moved his hand and carefully wrapped it around John’s hips. He helped John up onto his feet; John didn’t resist nor did he give in. Sherlock had to lift him back to standing, while John clutched his shoulder and whimpered. If Sherlock had let him go, he would fall back down.

Sherlock led him to the sofa, and let him sit. He sat next to him on the left, and pushed John sideways until he was lying over his lap. John only continued to cry loudly, seemingly unware of what was going out.

Sherlock rearranged him until he was cradling John close to his chest. John rested his head in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, and his cries quickly ceased. He inhaled shakily and let out a whimper. He lay still for several minutes.

As the minutes passed, John tried to lie still in Sherlock’s arms, but the pain seemed to steal his focus from anything else. He closed his eyes and focused—hard—on Sherlock’s breathing, his arms gently holding John around his back—one under his neck and the other holding him beneath his left shoulder blade.

John inhaled slowly, naturally relaxing as Sherlock’s breathing became more prominent over the pain. But then a nerve flared up in his arm, jolting him out of his state briefly. John winced and started to fidget again, the pain coming back and worsening.

Sherlock hummed wordlessly. John let out a shaky sigh.

“It hurts,” he whispered shakily. Sherlock altered his hold and rubbed John’s back, attempting to soothe him.

“I know…”

The man sounded pained, startling John, and distracting him from his own pain for a moment.

And yet, another shot of pain sent a jolt through John’s body, trembling from his shoulder down to his chest. John clutched his fist on Sherlock’s shirt and squeezed his eyes shut. The pain decreased quickly and became numb—more so then it had been. John tried to relax without causing it again; he slouched into Sherlock’s hold. He urged himself to fall asleep and tried not to think about his injury or his burden; the future or his uselessness to the man he loved—John tried to banish those thoughts from his mind, yet he failed. John cheeks burned with self pity and he let out a chocked cry.

The pain once again increased and trembled his body into near havoc. Sherlock held him gently and didn’t let go. John didn’t dare open his eyes—he wouldn’t be able to handle the pity or hell, even the uselessness he’d see in Sherlock’s eyes. They both couldn’t be feeling those things at the same time, otherwise they’ll lose, and John didn’t want that. He needed Sherlock to stay strong whilst he healed. So John kept his eyes shut.

Sherlock held John for several hours. When John seemed to have finally fallen into a deep sleep, Sherlock stood up slowly and carried John _(since when had he lost so much weight?)_ into their bedroom.

John shivered as Sherlock laid him down. Sherlock pulled the sheet over his body and felt his forehead. He was slightly warm. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and hung his head. Quietly, his body shook as silent sobs made their way out of his throat. He inhaled deeply, but couldn’t calm himself. Tears followed suit. He wiped his eyes and contemplated what to do next when a hand touches his back softly.

Sherlock looked around to see John looking at him, his eyes slightly parted, but glistening.

“Sher’lock,” John whispered hoarsely. Sherlock turned fully around and leaned closer. John opened his mouth to speak, but instead, his eyebrows furrowed. His eyes became unfocused, and then they fluttered closed. Sherlock leaned closer, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

“John?”

John shivered and reached for the blanket. His breathing rate increased, and he closed his eyes.

Sherlock felt John’s forehead again; it was warmer suddenly. Sherlock reached for the thermometer and placed it in John’s mouth. He waited for several moments, the seconds feeling like minutes, when finally it beeped.

 _38 degrees...and likely rising,_ Sherlock thought. Panicking but acting quickly, Sherlock headed into their bathroom. He started to fill the tub and once it was tolerable, he ran back to the room. John was unconscious, and muttering under his breath. Sherlock nearly dragged John into a standing position, and then led him to the bathroom. He set John on the edge of the tub, and reached down to check the temperature of the water. It was just about lukewarm. Sherlock helped John back onto his feet.

“John, I need you to step into the tub.”

John became slightly aware and looked down at the tub, and slowly registered what Sherlock said. He lifted one foot at a time and stepped in. Sherlock pushed him down gently until he was fully sitting, the water rising above his waist. He shivered and hunched his shoulders.

“Sher’lock,” John complained quietly. He shivered and whimpered. “It’s cold…”

“It can’t be too warm,” Sherlock explained, but it wasn’t clear if John heard him. John leaned back against the foot of the tub and closed his. Sherlock shook John’s shoulders gently, causing him to reopen his eyes.

“Try to stay awake.” Sherlock turned around and looked for a cloth. John whimpered and started to slide down the tub, submerging his head slightly. He wasn’t completely under the water, but his mouth and nose were. The movement startled him, and tried to lift himself back up by thrashing forwards. Sherlock turned around quickly and then reached forward, placing his arm around John’s back to pull him up.

John gasped and continued to squirm upwards. He shifted his left arm to push Sherlock away, but grimaced in pain and cried out. Sherlock stilled and looked at John’s arm. The bandage over his wound had come apart, and the wound was slightly bleeding.

Sherlock berated at himself for being careless, and tried to pull John up into a sitting position. But, John continued to squirm against Sherlock as he tried to lie back in the tub and clutch at his shoulder. He scrunched his eyes closed and whimpered.

Sherlock reached for the cloth he had dropped and pressed it to the bleeding wound. John pushed away from him and started to mumble feverishly.

“James…!”

Sherlock ignored his comments and felt his forehead; he was still too warm despite being in the cool bath. The water was turning a light pink from the blood, and Sherlock couldn’t get the bleeding to stop.

“Hold still,” Sherlock told John gently. “I need to—,”

Sherlock tried to keep his hold around John steady, but he was straining himself as he leaned over the tub. Sherlock quickly stood on his knees and pulled John upwards into a sitting position, harsher than before. John yelped and tried to move away.

“S-stop, p-please—,” John stuttered. Sherlock didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, his voice pained. He bowed his head but didn’t loosen his hold. John leaned heavily into it and continued to shift in pain, clutching at his shoulder and keeping his eyes tightly closed.

He held him up in the tub for several minutes, soaking his arms in the process. He placed the cloth over John’s wound, attempting to keep it dry. The bleeding slowly stopped, and John’s skin was starting to feel cooler. Stiffly, Sherlock lifted John into a standing position and helped him out of the tub. John collapsed in Sherlock’s arms, unconscious before Sherlock could get a towel over him. Sherlock carried him back to their bedroom, and dried him off there and dressed him loosely in fresh clothes.

John lay still beside him. He was cooler, but Sherlock didn’t know how long he would stay that way.

Sherlock bowed his head as John lay in their bed. He let out a shuddering breath, and blinked rapidly as unwanted tears stung his eyes. He hated this. He hated John injured—for being in pain and being tormented by physical strain. Sherlock bowed his head further until his forehead rested on the duvet. He could hear John struggling for a full gulp of air. He could sense a fever rising again, going by the increase restlessness as John’s body temperature rose. And, there was the opened wound—Sherlock whimpered and covered his face. He knew John was suffering from an infection still, so all of this had been likely to happen, but he didn’t know what to do next!

Sherlock wished he could go against John’s word this time, but the man’s insistence, and painful condition he was already in, was hard to cross.

In front of him, John moaned in his sleep. Sherlock refused to look at him. Earlier, the look on John’s face when Sherlock mentioned the hospital was that of fear, and pleading. He didn’t want to go to the hospital—Sherlock knew that. But watching him get worse was becoming unbearable by the second. Sherlock needed to fix this. He needed John to get better now! Whatever the consequence of disobeying John and going against his wishes was worth it; preferable than the consequence of John becoming sicker in their own bed!

Sherlock stood up swiftly and looked down on John’s disheveled form. In one swift motion, Sherlock bent forward and gathered John into his arms. He carried him down the hall, not caring if John woke up as he did so. There wasn’t much John would be able to do anyway, which Sherlock cringed at that fact, but continued out of the flat.

It was the middle of the night, yet a car was just passing down Baker Street, and pulled over the moment Sherlock stepped forward. He mentally noted to thank Mycroft later, through silent glares of course.

He carefully climbed in and placed John in his lap as the car drove away. Sherlock became startling worried when John didn’t wake up at all on the way to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments keep me sane, and keep me writing. Thank you everyone who has commented! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

John woke with a start and opened his eyes, expecting to see Sherlock’s bedroom. Instead, he saw Sherlock in a familiar hospital chair, and surrounding him was hospital equipment, beeping monotonously.

Glaring, John flickered his eyes to Sherlock, only for his expression to falter to shock. Sherlock was red in the face, his eyes were puffy, and his nose was especially red. His hair was a greasy bundle of untidy curls, and his clothes were disheveled. He clearly hadn’t washed himself in at last two days, and now he was fast asleep in the chair, his head lolling on his shoulder.

John sighed and lay against the pillow, silently conflicted. He gave in to exhaustion and fell back into slumber.

He woke a few hours later. Sherlock was awake, standing by the window with his back to John. John tired to stretch, but his injured arm was still in the sling, with a fresh bandage over his bare torso. He fidgeted, rustling the sheets, catching Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock turned and faced him; he was impassive at first, but as his eyes traveled over John’s body, his own body trembled and he stumbled forward. Sherlock knelt down and buried his face in the sheets by John’s legs. John, taken aback, hesitantly placed his hand over Sherlock’s back, running his fingers through his curls. Sherlock sighed shakily and blindly reached for John’s hand; he placed his hand over John’s injured arm, unaffected by the sling. John turned slightly to keep his right hand over his lap and in Sherlock hair. Sherlock’s breathing slowly evened out, and much to John’s surprise and relief, he fell asleep.

John stayed awake for a few more hours while Sherlock slept beside him. The doctor visited and updated John on his prognosis; his fever was finally gone after a couple of days in the hospital, in which John had ice packs placed over his body in order to do so. They had given him antibiotics for the infection, and through it all John slept. The medical staff shared information about Sherlock, stating he didn’t sleep at all until John’s fever finally broke, in which he nearly collapsed in relief. As they left the room for John to comprehend it all, he felt immensely guilty of how stubborn he had been through all of this. It all seemed like a blur. He wished he realized it sooner, when he was conscious and clearheaded. But, it was over now, it seemed. The infection was being treated, and for the first time in several, several days, John could think, and reflect on what the two of them went through.

But John was also still very tired, and as he had prepared to face Sherlock and apologize, he fell asleep.

Now with the both of them awake, John couldn’t find the words to express his embarrassment, or even apologize for being utterly stubborn these past few weeks. Sherlock hovered around the room, fiddling with the surroundings, glancing out the window, and perking up when voices rose from the hallway, as if the awkwardness in the room would be interrupted. John couldn’t take the silence anymore, but he had no idea what to say. Sherlock seemed to be at a loss as well, or he may just be bored; John wasn’t completely sure. That seemed a likely assumption, so John decided to ignore his embarrassment for now and offer Sherlock an out.

“You can leave, you know,” John said softly. To his surprise, Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock and his fiddling ceased.

“Why on earth would I want to leave?”

John flinched; Sherlock seemed offended by the offer. John wasn’t sure why he would feel that way. He fiddled himself this time, focusing on the unraveling bits of the alabaster blanket

“I don’t mind—,”

“I’m not bored,” Sherlock snapped.

His tone was off, and he began pacing in front of John’s bed, avoiding John’s eyes. John kept looking at Sherlock.

“Then what is it?”

Sherlock laughed, humorlessly.

“Gee, I don’t know. What do you think?” Sherlock’s innocent tone was clearly faked. John rolled his eyes, his patience running low.

“You were affected. By all this,” John stated matter-of-factly, realizing it as he spoke. He hadn’t wanted to; he knew Sherlock cared, but he hadn’t wanted to cause him distress.

Sherlock sighed and paused. He hung his head and placed his hands on his hips.

“If by this,” Sherlock started, his voice above a whisper and borderline hoarse. “You’re referring to your idiotic stubbornness, your begging to me to keep your word, and watch you become sicker and sicker while I was conflicted on whether I should your word and keep you home, or do what I would have wanted to do sooner, and take you to the hospital. But this is just _this._ Not a big deal, having to put you in cold water, hoping your temperature goes down, and that you wouldn’t seize and die while I slept. But as you said. It’s just ‘all this’.”

John gaped at him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“I—”

Sherlock straightened up, dropped his arms from his hips, and met John’s apologetic gaze.

“And for that matter…watching you dying was not what I wanted, when it could have been avoided if you—” Sherlock pointed at John accusingly. “Hadn’t gotten shot in the first place!”

Sherlock was closer to John, so John reached forward and grabbed Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Sherlock was startled, but John pulled him harder until Sherlock was pressed up against the railing, nearly leaning over towards John’s chest. John leaned up and gathered Sherlock in a hug, bring him close to his chest; Sherlock suppressed an “oomph” against John’s skin, and didn’t try to pull away. John’s shoulder wound protested, but he ignored it.

Sherlock shuddered against him, and slowly relaxed in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I didn’t mean to stress you out.” Sherlock sniffled and leaned back enough to see John’s face.

“No matter what, I still would have been,” Sherlock quietly said. “It was…traumatizing.” John furrowed his eyebrows and remained serious.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nodded and returned to hugging him, rearranging his arms so they were chest to chest.

“I know. It’s really not your fault, not entirely. Just… don’t do it again.”

John let out a chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”

As they settled against each other, Sherlock eventually made it on the bed, and then both finally fell in a decent sleep.

*            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Sherlock watched John as he went up the steps to their flat, waiting for any kind of pause or chance of stumbling. He didn’t say a word, and neither did John. Since his apology, John hadn’t said much, concerning Sherlock. He was still bothered by John’s stubbornness, but he didn’t think John would still be angry at him for going against his word.

Sherlock followed John into their flat, and out of habit, hovered around him to make sure he would be all right. John seemed to know where he was going, until he came to a swaying pause in the hallway leading to their bedroom. Sherlock placed his palm on John’s lower back; John leaned back into the touch, and Sherlock watched him close his eyes.

“John?” Sherlock needed clarification that he was okay; or that he will be. The reluctance from John about his condition didn’t extinguish Sherlock’s worries.

John swayed again, and this time he was dangerously slow at recovering his balance. He was clearly exhausted. Sherlock wrapped his arm around his waist and gently led him to their bedroom with a small push. By the time they made it, John very nearly passed out as he sat down.

“I just need to lie down for a moment,” John said.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll get you some tea.”

John looked at him, his eyes widening minutely. Sherlock looked away and left the room. When he came back with a steaming cup of tea, John had started to undress, but was still in his shirt and pants. He was staring at his hands.

Sherlock set down the mug and looked at John closely. His hands were trembling. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were lowered; he was paler and looked startling thinner from this angle. He no longer had a slight amount of weight in his midsection, and his face lacked the sunshine glow John tended to have—he was like a dimming light bulb, on the cusp of burning completely out in front of Sherlock’s very eyes.

Sherlock knelt down and took John’s hands into his own; he could feel the tremors shake into his own palms. He squeezed them gently, urging some kind of relief into John. John didn’t pull away, although he was clearly ashamed and embarrassed. His expression was shifting between wanting the comfort and wanting to hide away—he was conflicted, Sherlock realized, and was just about to break down.

“The nerves…” John started to say.

“It’ll take time,” Sherlock reassured shortly. “Physical therapy for a few months and you’ll be fine. You will be.”

John’s lip trembled, and the shaking in his hands worsened, traveling up to his shoulders and through the rest of his body. John shuddered and hunched forward, wanting to curl up on himself. He leaned forward, and Sherlock caught him. He wrapped his arms around John and held him tightly close. John’s breathing became heavy and ragged. He quickly began to sob against Sherlock’s collar; he clutched at Sherlock’s shirt, clenching his fists tightly in order to suppress the trembling. He muffled his cries into the fabric, but the sound only worsened. Sherlock swallowed tightly and blinked his own tears back; this wasn’t fair. None of this should have been happening, especially to John, this wonderful man he’s spending his life with.

But Sherlock knew John could get through this. He knew it himself. He inhaled deeply and hugged John tightly back to try to control both of their emotions. He could feel his shirt dampen from the tears, and John was slowly coming to an end, hiccupping against his shirt and sniffling. He slowly pulled away and wiped his face as he kept his head down, avoiding Sherlock’s concerned gaze.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“I am too,” Sherlock whispered. John hugged him tighter.

“You will be fine,” Sherlock said.

John pulled back and looked at him, hardening his gaze.

“We will be,” he said.

Sherlock sighed with hesitant relief and nodded. “I—,”

“Please, don’t apologize again. This has just been…I mean, it’s shown the worst of us, and the best. You’ve been brilliant, Sherlock, and I…I love you,” John said quickly, inhaling deeply afterwards. Sherlock relaxed and nodded as he returned the hug.

“I love you, too.”

*            *            *

**A Few Weeks Later**

John awoke the next morning, feeling numb. He glanced at the clock and was stunned to see it was almost noon. He hadn’t woken up during the night once, not from pain or even a nightmare. John focused on himself and could feel his shoulder ache, but it wasn’t as it had been the past few weeks.

He climbed out of bed and looked around the room. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, and his side of the bed was made. John couldn’t tell if it had been disturbed at all or not. He carefully dressed in clean clothes, wary of his bandaged arm, and placed the sling back on before heading out into the kitchen. Upon entering, he saw Sherlock faced down on the counter, with piles of papers and petri dishes surrounding him. The man was fast asleep. John started to step forward, when Sherlock shifted and then sat upright, waking up almost immediately.

Sherlock looked at John, slowly dragging his eyes over his body and stance. John was still pale, but not sickly so. After having suffered from an infection and fever off and on for the few months, not to the mention the gunshot wound that started it all, he looked rather well for what he had been through.

But it was his eyes that were different. Sherlock stared at them for a few moments longer, basking in the relief he felt as he saw the light in John’s eyes. He looked alive, and as strong enough to still be staring there, grinning at Sherlock.

“Good morning,” John said.

“John,” Sherlock said as he sat up and stepped forward. He kissed John gently and then pulled away.

“Good morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are the best :)
> 
> Ending this was hard and I tried to make it fluffy but I'm so used to writing them together I forget to add kissing and such.... opps

**Author's Note:**

> comments keep me sane :)


End file.
